Knowledge
by noiseforyoureyes
Summary: It would end here, at a small apartment in Gare du Nord: with a small action, and small words.  Written for thebourneseries at LJ.


**Knowledge  
**by noiseforyoureyes

_disclaimer_: It all goes back to Ludlum.

_summary_: Jason remembers first being introduced to Martin Kreutz (Marie's half-brother) in Paris.

* * *

He was nameless again.

The knowledge left him feeling oddly bereft. It shouldn't matter, a part of him insisted. After all, he'd never called _himself_ anything; names were for the use and benefit of other people. That was the job of the dozen passports piled in his knapsack, each attaching a different name to his face – to put a security agent at ease, give an attendant a clear conscience. Names were molds that men like Abbott and Hirsch used to make people into something else. They'd given him Jason Bourne, then carved away David Webb bit by painful bit until he fit inside the name. It was a clean slate, they'd told him. A clear purpose.

But Bourne was now a name slick with too much sweat and dark blood. Though he had consciously and verbally exorcised it, he still felt the need to scrub himself clean. The remembering had both purged and tainted him. He knew, at long last, what he'd suspected all along: that he'd allowed the shaping, given over his body and mind to an ideal that, in truth, didn't exist. David Webb had sacrificed himself into the service of justice, and as a ghost, sought it still. Sharp fragments of the man were embedded somewhere close to the seat of his soul – prodding it, over and over again, until it bled guilt and shame. He was never rid of Webb, just as he was never rid of Bourne.

And yet the man he had become was someone else entirely.

He fingered the mug that sat on the table in front of him. Paris was raining sheets outside, and the café was busy with people trying to dry out and drink something warm. Blue and orange light dripped down the wet glass that shielded him; the backwards lettering realigned itself instantly in his mind. No one paid him any attention here, though he knew that was no longer an imperative. The habit of staying invisible was hard to shake.

His eyes kept straying to the doorway. Soon enough, he would make his way through the throng of people and back out into the downpour – navigating the winding streets toward Gare du Nord.

For now, though, something kept him still. He frowned, and for the first time in three years, remembered what hesitation felt like.

* * *

"We can't." Why did it always come out sounding so blunt? He watched Marie's face, how carefully impassive it remained. She'd become good at this – too good. Any disappointment or frustration that she might be tempted to feel at his words was barred instantly.

"I know," came her reply. "I just wonder what he looks like, now." She stared off in the direction of Tenth District. The hum of the approaching train grew louder, and a crosswind whipped at her now-blonde hair. It was growing longer.

Jason wasn't prone to despair, but he felt the barest edges of it in the silence between them. He hated everything responsible for the resigned look Marie wore – including himself. It was hard to swallow, the way she so easily dropped the few connections she still shared with friends and family on the fringes of the world – for him. For the tenuous nomadic life they shared.

But he simply couldn't bring himself to trust that there would be no prying or disapproval when they saw him with her. Something that might lead to misplaced words, however quiet. The wrong person was always listening; it was one of the mantras he lived by, though even now, he wasn't sure where it came from: the training or his own experiences long ago, in the empty years before Treadstone.

Minutes passed. The train arrived, slowing to a stop with its trademark low screech. A storm of people exited and passed the two of them by like they were lifeless obstacles. Marie stepped forward to board, but within a second, Jason had put out an arm to hold her back. She glanced over at him, quizzical. Others from behind were already pushing to get on. He locked eyes with Marie and walked over to the side, knowing she would follow.

"Jason?" Even over the barrage of conversation and noise, he could pick out her lightly accented voice. She always made his name sound like it belonged to one of the thousands of other men in the world that bore it – commonplace. Safe.

Within seconds, she was standing beside him again out in open space, watching the final boarders sneak through the train's closing doors.

"We'll wait for the next one."

She scrutinized him, then glanced up at the marquee, scanning the arrival times and destinations. He could see the hope flickering again in her expression, then watched it warm her face as it was confirmed: "Gare du Nord?" Her tone of disbelief stung, but he savored it all the same.

Nodding, he tried his best to give her a smile.

Marie's own was brilliant.

* * *

His name was Martin, and Jason could see why Marie liked him. His simply arranged apartment seemed a transparent enough reflection of the man, who looked barely out of his twenties. Unassuming, open. Nothing to hide. He grinned when Marie stepped through the door, and it felt genuine. Of course, when he finally noticed she had a shadow, his grin faltered… but only slightly. He seemed curious, more than anything – less surprised than Jason had expected.

She treated him like a brother, not a half-brother, and Jason was amazed that two people who'd seen so little of each other over the years could still have such a warm and familiar rapport. But then, that was the blessing that came with memory – and Jason knew only the curse.

"You look so different," Martin exulted, studying her. "Of course, you never did stay in the same phase for very long."

Marie shrugged, smiling. "It's a habit." Then, raising an eyebrow: "You're the one who looks unrecognizable."

"Hey." He drew back and glanced down sheepishly, as if to survey himself. Younger, Jason thought immediately. Marie's his older sister. "Is that a good or a bad different?"

"_Good_." She laughed. "Don't look so terrified!"

"I'm sorry, I forgot to ask your name." Martin had shifted toward Jason, and was now offering his hand.

Jason shook it. "John," he said, hardly missing a beat.

* * *

The makeshift bed Martin had provided for him was comfortable enough – two twins in two separate rooms were all he had, and Marie deserved one of those – but the moment the lights were out and Jason heard their breathing regulate, he stood. His dreams had been exhausting the past few nights, and he didn't particularly feel like revisiting them. It was ironic that he found more rest awake now, in the silence of ungodly hours, than he did asleep.

He flipped through the notebook Marie had given him, studying the scratched ink on every page. It was beginning to fill, but none of the information his scattershot memories gave him ever truly connected. There were gaps on every side: like solitary jigsaw pieces that, frustratingly enough, could belong to any part of the greater picture.

He set the notebook down and paced. Even with Conklin gone and Treadstone ground to an effective halt, he still couldn't shake the feeling that they'd found Martin – at the same time they'd found Eamon and his children – and that no matter how humble or isolated the home, it was compromised. Not safe for him and Marie, and not safe for Martin as long as the two of them stayed. And Jason was tired of destroying lives other than his own.

Martin didn't act like anything had happened in recent months. But then, that was par for the course – there was no fathomable way those watching him would have let him notice.

Marie would call it paranoia, but he knew the thought must have occurred to her, as well. Perhaps it was part of the reason she wanted to come here. To make sureher brother was still going about his life the way every normal person deserved – that her own face and lifestory flashing on the screens of the CIA's database hadn't extended its influence _this_ far.

Almost without thinking, Jason began to circle the room. Checking outlets, electronics, phone lines. It didn't take long. The dial tone of one of the phones was just slightly higher pitched than it should be. He unscrewed the receiver and picked out the bug in the dark. He didn't need to see where it was; he knew where it was, easier and more naturally than he knew anything else.

Wires poked out of the tiny chip like spider legs, still clinging to the receiver. Jason sank down into the couch, weighted. He ran a hand over his face, then turned on a small desk lamp to his left, carefully examining the bug in the light.

A door opened down the hallway. He froze, trying to recognize the footsteps. Not Marie.

Martin's face appeared in the dim light, squinting. "John?"

Jason didn't bother trying to hide the chip. He watched Martin's eyes slowly take in the situation – the dissected phone, the small wiry piece of plastic between his fingers. "What're you doing?" The grogginess in his voice was quickly evaporating. "My phone – what's going on?"

"I'm sorry to wake you up." Jason placed the bug on the desk between them.

Martin eyed him, then the chip. A hundred different accusations seemed to nearly make it past his lips – but incredibly enough, he said nothing. Clearing off the leather chair opposite Jason, he sat down, head in his hands, and took a deep breath. "I knew your name wasn't John."

Despite himself, Jason was surprised. "How?"

"I've been lied to a lot, in my life." He smiled sadly. "Ask Marie sometime."

Jason couldn't quite find a suitable reply. "I wasn't trying to deceive you."

Martin sighed. "Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck, looking at sideways at the chip on the desk. "So. Is that what it looks like?" His voice broke just barely at the end of the question. Jason was impressed with how well he kept himself in check.

Several explanations warred in his mind. More than anything, he wanted to give Martin the truth; the honest, expectant face that stared at him deserved it. His home had been violated without his knowledge, his sister had been put in more danger than he could rightly fathom over the past year – and he himself had just narrowly missed being a part of it.

"Your phone was tapped," said Jason. "About three months ago." He watched Martin grow visibly tense. "The place it was transmitting to is gone," he added, hoping that would soften the news. Silence stretched for a good minute.

"Marie's running from something?" Martin finally asked.

"No. I am."

He nodded, narrowing his eyes. "Police?"

"…not really."

Martin picked up the chip, turned it over in his fingers. He let out a quivery breath, shaking his head. "Doesn't look like police."

"Your sister wanted to see you," Jason said suddenly, leaning forward to hold Martin's gaze. "It's not her fault: none of this is. And she would tell you it's not mine, but she'd be wrong."

Martin seemed taken aback, not certain what to feel or say.

"I promise you, I will not let them touch her."

He swallowed, then gave another nod of acknowledgement. "I'll hold you to it." By this point, he'd run a hand through his hair so many times it was sticking up in odd directions. Jason wished, in that moment, that he could quietly extract himself from Martin's life, leaving both he and his sister untouched in the process – but it was too much, too late. And Marie, he knew, would quite firmly object.

"So, uh – what's your real name?" Martin asked, after a handful of seconds had passed.

Once more, Jason gave him the truth. "I don't know."

"What does she call you?"

"Jason."

The light flicked on. Both men turned their heads toward the hallway entrance, where pale Marie stood, brow furrowed. She was looking down at the desk, where the pieces of phone lay. Her eyes locked with Jason's.

* * *

He held onto the memory: her eyes locked with his. Slowly, it replaced the memory of another pale Marie, floating in the green, her eyes locked with nothing.

The rain soaked through his black coat, and he allowed himself to feel the cold – to shiver and wish for warmth. He'd been numb for so long; it was a relief to feel again. Mere feeling had drawn him here, after all. A gut impulse that once again, he needed to impart the one gift he had: truth. Martin Kreutz deserved to know why and how his sister could no longer walk through his door; to know exactly who was responsible.

Only now would it done. It hadn't ended in New York, or with Landy's fax, or with the arrests and news reports that followed. It would end here, at a small apartment in Gare du Nord: with a small action, and small words.

He walked up and let his finger hover over the doorbell. This time, he wouldn't be waiting in the living room.


End file.
